


Pretty Princess

by Leaveitbrii



Series: The Queen and I [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a sweetie pie, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Laziness, M/M, Magic Fingers, Massage, Maybe - Freeform, Minor Swearing, Pre-Slash, This is suppose to be cute, is that even a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaveitbrii/pseuds/Leaveitbrii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles just wants to sleep. Who cares if it's on the side of the road?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Princess

Stiles stares into his lap, eyes heavy and tired. He had pulled his jeep to the side of the road, deciding his seat was far too comfortable to not nap on. The lull of cars driving past sends soothing rocks against his Jeep. It had been a long two weeks with Scott’s werewolf issues and Allison and fucking, fucking Derek fucking Hale. He sighs into the air heavily as he slumps deeper into his seat. His phone buzzes in the seat next to him. It had been ringing for a while but he merely ignored it. His eyelids close involuntarily, the soft kiss of sleeping coursing through his body.

Stiles jerks up, back painfully erect, the sudden rocking of his jeep startling him awake. A groan escapes his mouth when he sees Derek, Derek fucking Hale, standing in front of the jeep, hands tucked smugly into the pockets of his leather jacket. Stiles swears softly, shaking his head furiously as the other stalks closer. 

“I’m way too fucking tired for this.” His grumpy expression causes Derek to raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll drive you home.”

His expression left no room for discussion and Stiles rolls his eyes, easing over the center console into the passenger seat. He buckled up, wincing at the harsh slam of his door closing. Stiles barely registers the Jeep starting up or the fact that his face is buried in Derek’s leather clad arm or that Derek is allowing it. All he knows is that it’s quiet and dark and he can finally-

“We’re here.”

He can feel hands on his shoulder; feel them moving against him until his mind breaks into alertness. It takes every fiber in his body to not scream in frustration but the idea of yelling makes him more tired. Stiles rolls his head around, eying the front door of his house strangely as if it’s not really there. The passenger door is open and Derek is standing in the opening, face twisted into his usual brooding. 

“Dude, Derek, you gotta move.” Stiles mumbles grumpily, struggling with his seat belt.

Derek rolls his eyes, reaching over him and unbuckling the device. He hooks an arm under thin legs, another tucked in the middle of his back. Stiles squeals- he does not squeal, he yelps. Stiles does not squeal. But he’s too tired to protest, hooking an arm around Derek’s neck and Jesus, it’s so firm and –is that a vein? Stiles probes the skin, eyes transfixed on the way it moves when he breathes. Derek shivers under the ministrations, the corner of his lips tugging downward as he manages to tug Stiles’ house keys from his pocket.

“I feel like a pretty princess.” Stiles chuckles breathlessly.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“I could have sworn we talked about this man.”

Derek manages to unlock the door and get them inside without dropping Stiles or kicking down the door. Both potential options didn’t sound good. At all. Stiles curls his fingers into the collar of Derek’s jacket inhaling the crisp scent of wood, autumn- cinnamon if he focuses long enough. He knocks his head into Derek’s shoulder as he climbs the stairs, groaning softly into the leather because Jesus, this man was like steel.

“Dude, how are you even real? You’re like titanium. Superman or something.”

Derek snorts out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure Superman isn’t real.”

“Werewolves are real. I’m skeptical of anything.”

Derek nudges the bedroom door of Stiles’ room open with his foot. It sways open enough for him to slip inside. He moves over to Stiles’ bed, dropping said owner unceremoniously on top of it. Stiles makes a whining noise, deciding to roll over on his nice soft bedspread than to comment on how unromantic that was. He vaguely notices the click of the door shutting or the sound of clothes hitting the floor. All that matters is this bedspread. It’s soft-like butter soft except not greasy and disgusting. But it was smooth and that’s all that matters.

“Stiles.”

He shakes his head into his pillow, mumbling soft words of protests. Whatever this was, whatever this thing was could wait. There is a beat of silence and Stiles almost weeps with joy until he feels his mattress dip. Warm fingers slip under his shirt, pushing in up until it bunches up around his shoulders. 

“Off.” Derek orders, his voice soft. 

Stiles forces himself to his knees, pinching the ends of his shirt and dragging them upward until it’s stuck around his arms and head and this is bullshit because he doesn’t have to be naked to go to bed. Derek helps him, untangling his elbows and managing to pull the shirt off without snagging Stiles’ nose on the fabric. Brownie points have been earned. Derek allows Stiles to fall back into his bed, face half buried in his pillow, arms tucked beneath it. He feels hands working on his pants and lifts his hips slightly to ease the passage.

Stiles’ eyes slide close, firm hands on his shoulders. He moans softly, thumbs pressing deeply, wamrth flushing over his skin. They move in small circular motions, working their way into the tension of his shoulders. Stiles cracks an eye open, whimpering as the hands move down further, heat trailing thickly behind. He feels his body easing into mush, bones sinking into his bed like dead wait. A hum of approval slips past his lips, Derek’s hands working their way into his lower back.

“Are you magic?” Stiles sighs. “You feel like magic. Oh my goooood.”

He hears Derek snort behind him. “Still tired?”

“Yeah, man. But this feels nice. So nice. I am a pretty princess.”  
“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Okay, man. Ook-“ Stiles whimpers again, feeling a knot ease it’s way out.

“You say something, princess?” He can hear the smirk in Derek’s voice.

“Nope. Nope. Not here.”

He’s come to the conclusion that Derek’s fingers are magical, like every other stupid thing that is Derek Hale. Other than that stupid Camaro. That was not magical- well that’s what he tells himself every night at least. The Camaro also wasn’t Derek Hale, but whatever. 

Stiles finds himself becoming more alert and relaxed with each section of his body that Derek has thoroughly probed and rubbed and caressed and he’s pretty sure that’s not what’s suppose to happen but it is. Derek is straddling him now, fingers now in his hair, rotating and stroking and fuuuuck. Stiles is sure he isn’t going to survive this ordeal.

“Feeling better?”

Stiles manages a nod. “Yes, please, please don’t stop.” 

“What if I had other plans?”

Stiles makes a pained noise, rolling over onto his back. He feels like puddy or some interesting flavor of Jello. Derek is staring down at him, his face content and pretty. Stiles forces himself upward and he’s honestly not sure how someone can be so alert but lifeless. He figures it’s a new form of laziness. But he can get behind that. 

“Plans with who?” Stiles nudges him lightly. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I have friends, Stiles.”

Stiles finds himself frowning because he knew that. He knew everything about Derek. Derek is still staring at him, eyebrow still raised, his body moving to get more comfortable on Stiles’ small bed. Stiles licks his lips, noticing the way Derek’s eyes follow the movement. He grins, grasping Derek’s shoulder and crawling into his lap. Stiles presses their foreheads together, warm breath mingling, and he dips his head, lips brushing slightly.

“Or you can stay here and we can make out.”

“Alright.”

Derek kisses him.


End file.
